


Becoming Solid Teflon

by Anonymous



Category: Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Drama, Crack Crossover, Espionage, F/M, Jedi Padmé Amidala, Jedi Training (Star Wars), On Hiatus, Only some Minor Characters though, Out of Character, Padawan/Jedi Knight Dynamics, Plot, Power Imbalance, Teenage Drama, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:29:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27564571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Padmé Naberrie is the Padawan apprentice of Lur Addus. Together, they patrol the streets of Coruscant, busting up drug rings and ending street fights. That all changed four months ago in a terrible injury that Padmé can’t bring herself to think about. Now, she helps the crèche minders and stays out of trouble.That is, she tries to. In her absence from the temple life, a sinister new hierarchy has crept in, a chain of command that Padmé’s not quite sure how to follow. All she wants to do is keep calm for two more weeks while the masters decide on her future and maybe help out a youngling who’s fallen through the cracks. Then, the leader of this new order makes Padmé an offer she can’t refuse and she finds herself caught up in a tangled web of lies and treachery. Will an unexpected ally help her cut her way out, or will he lead her even further from the light?Or: The Heathers crossover that no one asked for.*On hiatus because I’m not feeling it and there’s been a definite drop in the quality of my writing. Sorry, guys.*
Relationships: Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 13
Kudos: 7
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Count the Days

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [It’s Com-pie-licated](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26176270) by Anonymous. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fans of Jin-Lo Rayce (if there are any) and/or Bene (highly unlikely, seeing as she’s in about a minute of RotS) should turn back now. They may have been fine in canon, but here they are capitol ‘a’ Assholes.

Padmé sits uncomfortably on one of the chairs provided in the Halls of Healing. Across from her on a bed lies the very still and very quiet Lur Addus. Her master. Or at least, he was up until four months and two days ago. He still is, technically. That's what she'll be discussing in two weeks with the healers responsible for the man and the Council of Reassignment. The thought sends a shiver of fear through her. _Peace,_ she tells herself, the words echoing in Master Addus's voice. He wouldn't want her to fall apart, not at this stage of the game. _What's done is done. What will happen will happen. Right now you need to focus on studying what you can._ Her eyes flit to the stack of holobooks, checked out of the archives for a report that she'd been assigned by Master Strauda. He was supposed to be overseeing her studies. What he was actually doing was giving her a lot of light busywork and focusing on the ten and eleven year olds he was supposed to be preparing for apprenticeships they weren't quite ready for.

"Hello, Master," Padmé says in a quiet voice, feeling the halls around her in the Force for anyone who might overhear. She's alone. "I- I miss your guidance. Things have changed around the temple since I last spent my entire day here. It's been, what, four years now? Three and a half, maybe. I miss our missions. I have a bad feeling that they might send me off with a unit of clones. I'd honestly rather get shot at by gangsters than droids." She sighs and reaches out into their bond, testing her master's mental state. And, yet again, the soft grey thunderheads of a healing trance surround him with not a scurry underneath. "There are politics here. I suppose you knew that and kept me out of them, but now they're trying to drown me. Some of the other Padawans have a... system. Almost like an odd dance, or... a game. And if you want something from them, or they want something from you, you have to play it." Padmé glances up at his face, far too white for his Tholothian complexion. "I think I might have to do that, Master. And that's what scares me."

Chimes sound, marking the hour. Shooting one last look at her master, Padmé climbs to her feet, gathers the holobooks, and exits the room. She's supposed to be giving the report to Master Strauda. Sparing the neglected holobooks another glance, she decides to deposit them in her quarters. _After all, it's not like I'll be giving a report._ Trying to banish the sour thoughts from her mind, she tosses the small pucks into her drawers and makes for the crèche. As she approaches the room a sense of calm fills her. It's almost unavoidable, the mostly-happy light being funneled through the infants and children, but during the war it's taken on a desperate, caked-on effect. White paint trying to cover a black mark on Kaminoan walls. As she steps out into a strangely shaped room, Master Strauda nods at her. She walks over to where he's supervising a group of younglings in a group meditation.

"Padmé," he says cordially. She nods in response. _He’s not even going to ask about the report._ "Do you mind heading back to help Lorna with some of the older ones?" Master Strauda looks tired, something Padmé can't really blame him for. Some of the scales on his face are beginning to lighten. The whole crew of dedicated Jedi and volunteer Padawans that used to run the crèche have been stripped down to the bare bones of about fifty people. Not nearly enough for several hundred younglings that demand their attention. 

“I’m on it.” Internally, Padmé sighs. It’s not that she doesn’t like the younglings, it’s that she’s tired of teaching toddlers how to calm themselves and awkward preteens the finer points of Form I. Only a month ago she’d been following her master around the city, infiltrating smuggling rings and rounding up criminals. Making Coruscant a safer place. That was her spot in the Force, prowling the streets, using her heightened senses to avoid detection and sense the tiniest intentions. Not correcting a light saber grip for the twenty-seventh time. 

That’s apparently her spot in the Force _now_. If it wasn’t, she’d still be running around with the Sentinels. Padmé startles from her heavy thoughts as a training droid fires a bolt of energy past her head. _Great. Now I’m walking onto the training floor without looking_. She steps back, scanning the room with a well-practiced eye. 

A group of ten younglings, all on the cusp of Palawan-hood, by her judgement, are split between observing and deflecting blaster shots. Padmé picks her way around the outskirts of the room, one hand on her own weapon. This batch is good, that’s no doubt. Master Kharaj walks among them, giving out warnings, reprimands, and praise. The woman is fairly old and yet less worn-looking than Strauda. There’s an air of regality around her that Padmé remembers from her own days as a youngling, not a grey hair out of place or a spot of discoloration on her flowing robes. A model Jedi.

Master Kharaj calls a halt, the younglings on the floor putting away their weapons and turning to watch her. 

“We are being joined by two Padawan Learners today,” she says calmly, “And they will take over the next portion of your instruction. I have other duties to attend to.” Two _Padawan Learners?_ That’s when Padmé’s eyes land on Bene. A knot of anxiety forms in her stomach, difficult to banish. Younglings she can deal with. Bene not so much.

She tries her best to ignore the smug, brown-haired girl as they are instructed to speak to the Padawans about their very different experiences as Padawans. Padmé has an inkling that there’ll be another showcase soon, or at least a few younglings being assigned to masters. A group of five quickly surrounds her, chittering and asking a million questions at once as only eleven year olds can. They’ll quiet up soon enough, in her experience, soon followed by random bouts of chatterboxing, sulking, and extreme recklessness. _Adolescents are one of the Force’s greatest mysteries_ , Master Addus always said. The thought brings a smile to her lips. _Well, I guess I’ve got to pull myself out of the sulking and break out the chatterbox._

“Oh, are you seriously going to ask Padawan Naberrie about what working with a master is like?” Bene’s voice cuts off her first few words and send a sharp bit of annoyance jolting through her. _What is wrong with me today? I’m as moody as a tooka in heat!_ The other girl’s lips curl into a satisfied smirk at Padmé’s rattled look. “No offense, Padmé, it’s just... well, you don’t really _have_ a master anymore, do you? And it’s not like you ever went off to fight, anyway.”

_Breath in, breath out. Emotion, yet peace. Passion, yet tranquility._ If there is one person whose bait Padmé can absolutely not rise to at the moment, it’s Bene. Politics have their place in Padmé’s world, and she’s always thought about joining the Consulars after making knighthood, but _Jedi_ politics sometimes have her head hurting. And Bene is at the right hand of the strange and tangled web some of the Padawans have created.

None of that matters to the younglings, though, and they turn to Bene with interest in their eyes. “Now, as for me, I’ve been aboard countless cruisers and even flown fighters! In fact...” Padmé begins to tune out the other girl’s speech and simply shakes her head, trying to ignore the blatant lies and the bitterness that fills her. Bene and her master aren’t part of an official regiment, either. But, once again, she can’t call her out on the BS. Why? Because Bene’s master is on the Council of Reassignment. 

Something catches her eye. Set apart from the group is a youngling she hadn’t noticed before. He’s staring at the crowd with an unreadable expression, a vague sense of unrest palpable in the Force. Padmé moves closer to him, covertly trying to come up with anywhere to start. Luckily, she doesn’t have to.

“I’m never going to do any of that.” His voice is quiet and resigned. Padmé crosses her arms.

“What do you mean?” The boy sighs, shoving a few grey head-tendrils out of his face.

“I’m almost thirteen and a half.” Padmé winces. Thirteen is _the_ age. A birthday that fills most humanoids with dread. If you’re not a Padawan by then, you’re not going to be. “I’ve got a meeting with the reassignment council in two weeks. Everyone knows what that means. The crèche masters... they don’t even try with me anymore. No one wants me.” Her heart goes out to him. She starts to summon Master Addus’s words, things about the Force taking them where they need to go, then stops. This kid’s six months past his expiration date. He’s heard every wise lecture in the book.

“I’ve got a meeting with the reassignment council, too.” His liquid black eyes turn to her, widening with shock. “My master got... put out of action. A few months ago. I have no idea what they do with seventeen year old Padawans without masters, but they’re either going to graft me on to a new master, send me off the the Service Corps, or maybe even knight me more than three years early and then stick me at the head of a clone army.” Clearly, this kid doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Well, at least I’ll know someone in the AgriCorps.” He says a few moments later. “I’m Gil, by the way. Gil Nammonundos.” Padmé grins, extending a hand. There’s a foothold here, somewhere.

“Padmé Naberrie. And I highly doubt they’d send _you_ to the AgriCorps.” Gil gives her another confused look.

“Why not?”

“You’d kill all the plants with your moody disposition.” He actually cracks a smile at that. It’s a small victory, but a victory. Padmé was apprenticed at eleven. Thirteenth birthday panic had no time to set in at that age. This poor kid’s probably lived the last six months of his life waiting for the masters to swoop down on him and kick him out of the temple. Trying to tell him it’ll all be okay is not going to come off well. “So, Gil, do you want to hear me prattle on about the nobility of the Service Corps or that time I blew up a Sepratist battleship?” A snort. Little steps.

“I know all about the Service Corps.” He shakes his head, the ropy grey head-tendrils falling back in front of his face. They’re only about chest length, but he’s obviously proud of them. “EduCorps and their teaching jobs are for older people who have the right temperament, MedCorps is a bunch of really smart doctors, AgriCorps help people with their plants and do weird soil tests, and ExplorCorps are Seekers. Nobody but Agri takes rejects like me with any regularity. As for the Seppies, the tall one over there said you never saw any action.” Padmé grins.

“Not against the bolt-boxes. I ran around the underworld getting shot at _far_ more regularly than Bene. She’s been on a grand total of four missions against the droid army. Pretty much everything she’s saying is a lie. She’s got about as much to teach this class as a Hutt can teach about swimming.” Gil nods. Then he studies her with a hopeful expression.

“So you were an actual Padawan, right?” She nods. “And your master taught you stuff, right? Well... do you think you could teach me? Not,” he adds quickly, “as my master or anything, but maybe like... a tutor or something. So that next time I can show off a little. And maybe, you know, get selected.” Padmé blinks at him.

Pretty much everything is screaming at her that she can barely do Jedi stuff herself, how is she supposed to teach this kid? But it’s not like she’s taking him on as an apprentice. She’ll just help him out with saber forms. Maybe build up his endurence so the observing knights are impressed. And now she’s planning out lessons. _Well, it’s not like I’m doing anything anyway._

“You’ve got a deal.” The real smile on his face at this is worth all the crèche duty in the galaxy.

* * *

Her hour at the crèche is over, and a plan to meet up with Gil in the Room of a Thousand Fountains is firmly in place. She’s heading back towards the dormitories, thinking that she just might pick up those holobooks and get some studying done when a familiar black-haired smirk steps out into her way. _Two of them in a row. The Force must be with someone else today!_

“What do you want, Rayce?” Padmé asks, exasperated. Jin-Lo tucks a piece of raven hair behind his ear, his annoying grin doing its job. 

“Well _officially_ I’m here because Master Nu wants her datachips back,” he says, winking, “but a good friend of mine also wants to speak to you.” Padmé groans internally. _All three. What are the odds of that?_

“I’ll bring the datachips back later. What does she want from me now?” There is quite literally nothing that any of them could want from Padmé, and nothing that she wants from them. Except, well... they’ve got sway. Especially _her_. 

“That’s for me to know and you to find out. Come on, we’re all down in the sparring hall.” That last part would sound like a genuine request of friendship to any listening knight or master. Both Jin-Lo and Padmé know the truth.

“Fine,” she says, sighing, “I want to get this over with. Lunch only lasts an hour.” Their trip to the sparring hall is uneventful. To any outside observers, they look like a pair of Padawans heading off to practice or maybe slip a marble down someone’s shirt during meditation. Inside, Padmé feels like a storm. She’s nervous, relieved, and confused all at the same time. Keeping her head down has worked in the past. Why does it fail now? Today?

This sparring hall is one specific to the Padawans, though that rule’s never been ruthlessly enforced. Masters will come in and grab a tardy student, the newly knighted will stop by to see old friends, a master might descend occasionally to offer tips or sage advice. Now it’s being flouted more than ever before, and Padmé avoids it. The high, dusky purple ceiling and solidly tiled floors no longer hold any appeal to her. She’d rather do katas under a tree or even in her cramped cell of a room than venture down here, not alone, anyways. All of her friends have evaporated into the cloud of war, and she’s been left behind, a sad little raindrop in a drying puddle. 

As her feet leave the bottom step, she forces herself to take inventory of a room, a habit of her Sentinel training. This place is far better than a spice den or a holding room. The former is often full of strung out weirdos, dangerous and unstable in the Force. The latter... well, it’s an industry term for a room where trafficked humanoids are kept before sale. That helps put her task into perspective. It’s just a talk, not even half as dangerous as getting shot at or posing as a slave dancer. Nothing bad happens in a Jedi temple.

_Do I get points for optimism, Master Addus?_

A handful of the unaffiliated are scattered around the large room’s far end, people like Padmé used to be, blissfully unaware of the plots unfolding so close by. Some spar on the opposite side, in the know but simply ignoring. And then there are the people in the center, people who she recognizes as part of the inner circle. A ring of people surrounds their current bout, silent and closely observing. Their leader has very specific ideas about proper duel conduct. Proper Jedi conduct, too. 

And of course that’s _her_ right in the center of the circle, heavy robes flapping, the blue fire of her saber darting around her opponent’s green blade in a careful and artful dance. Her face is completely at ease. Serene. At odds with the cruelty Padmé knows she’s capable of. Not terrible cruelty, mind you, a few loud lectures/overheard comments about the appropriate way to comport yourself. A quick reminder of the Jedi code. Quieter discussions among the young knights and old Padawans about the Jedi council and their questionable decisions- not that the beautiful young woman in front of her would ever _dare_ question the masters, oh no!

All of that’s a polite way of saying that Barriss Offee is a controlling bitch.

The bout comes to an end, Jin-Lo hovering by Padmé’s side like a court messenger waiting to announce her presence. The Mirilian makes her way over to them, straightening her robes. Apparently her idea of proper conduct doesn’t forbid knights like herself from using the Padawan’s sparring hall. A smile plays across the black lips, a smile that Padmé reluctantly returns. You don’t mess around with Barriss. 

“Padawan Naberrie,” she says, as if Padmé’s presence is at all a surprise. “How would you like to take a walk with me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger! Sorry about that. Chapter would’ve been way too long if I didn’t split it. All things said, I hope you enjoy this! Updates might be spottier than my previous record beause of life things, so I’m not establishing an official weekly schedule. There will be updates at least bi-monthly, though, so do not fear. They’ll just be scattered around.


	2. All You Have to Do

Their steps echo with a hollow sound off the walls in an upper hallway. No one is there but them. Everyone’s eating lunch, like Padmé wants to be. Instead she’s here, marching along next to a semi-heretical Jedi. There’s been something off about Barriss, something that Padmé never noticed before. It feels... strange in the Force, like a square peg trying to fit in a round hole. It gives her annoying chills and makes her want to leave at the first opportunity.

“What do you want from me?” Padmé asks, wasting no time with pleasantries. Maybe a few months ago she would’ve engaged in some banter, tried to pry out Barriss’s motives and plans, examining each tiny clue. Now... now she doesn’t have the time or patience. The Mirilian smiles, as if expecting this.

“It’s not that I want something from you, Padmé,” she says, leading Padmé out onto an open terrace, “it’s what we can do to help each other.” This wedges at a knot tied in Padmé’s stomach. _Help. Isn’t that what I’ve been hoping for?_ But not help from Barriss. Not help like this. 

“I don’t think there’s anything that I want your help with.” she replies stiffly. Barriss maintains her smile.

“We both know that’s a lie, Padmé.” The two arrive at the edge of the terrace. From here, Padmé can see the mid-day traffic of Coruscant rushing by, thousands of people just going about their daily business. She grips the railing and ignores her companion. “The Jedi council have allowed themselves to become blinded by this war. Masterless Padawans like you are simply shoved to the back of the temple. Your education has been halted in favor of raising the younglings, who can simply be assigned a new master with no baggage to deal with. They’ve forgotten you.” Padmé firmly ignores her.

“I’ve heard this speech about the council before, Barriss. Hearing it from you isn’t going to be any more persuasive than hearing it from Jin-Lo.” The words _do_ strike a chord in her, though, in a way that the archivist’s hadn’t. It’s as if Barriss can look inside and see all of Padmé’s worries. She hastily checks her mental shields to make sure that that’s not the case.

“You’re afraid of getting sent off to the front lines.” Before Padmé can respond, Barriss continues, “That’s not a wrong feeling. We’re supposed to be peacekeepers, not fighting in a war that costs countless lives. Obviously, some of the other Jedi feel the same. The council is too blinded and corrupt to see that. If you help me in my quest to expose them, to make them listen- I can help keep you away from all of that.” Has the universe gone mad? Is Barriss Offee making sense?

“And I’m supposed to trust you because...” The green-skinned woman smiles.

“I have friends on the reassignment council.” Padmé turns away from her again. _Stay away from the politics_ , she reminds herself. _Peace_. No matter how tempting this offer seems.

“The Force will put me where it wants me, Knight Offee. Thank you for your offer, but no.” And she walks away, relief tinging the ends of her confusion. Somehow she’s feeling more conflicted about all of this than before the whole plan was laid out in front of her.

“You’ve made friends with a youngling by the name of Gil Nammonundos, have you not?” That sentence stops her in her tracks. Padmé might not care what happens to her, but she’s not about to let the wolves pounce on the poor kid because he had a three minute conversation with her. She turns to see the ever-serene smile on Barriss’s face. The model Jedi. What a laugh. 

“I’m going to show him some saber techniques that might impress his future master.” She says the sentence carefully, as if she’s walking across a field of ice. 

“The council assigns practically every youngling to a master nowadays, Padmé. If he hasn’t gotten one by now, he’s not going to be a Padawan. Ever.” Padmé crosses her arms.

“Spit it out, Offee.” 

“I will take him on as an apprentice if you agree to help me and my... supporters. If you do not, well... someone might let it slip that the child is head-strong and untrainable.” The smugness flickering across Barriss’s face is more annoying that Bene and Jin-Lo combined. Padmé grits her teeth and keeps her face immoble, but on the inside she’s a turbulent ocean. _If I don’t help her, it’ll guarantee that Gil will never make Padawan. If I do help her, well... it’s good for everyone._ That’s what Jedi do, isn’t it? Make the choice that helps the most people?

“I thought you fought _against_ corruption in the order.” Then she sighs. “What exactly do you plan on doing?”

“Tommorow, I’ve planned to meet up with my contacts in the city. It’s become too risky to meet up in familiar areas, and we’ll need a guide to move around the underworld.” Padmé sighs again.

“Me?” Barriss nods. 

“You.” _Great. Sneaking out of the temple is a strong argument for reassigning me to a new master instead of just lumping me onto crèche duty._ “It will be four of us; Jin-Lo and Bene will come along.”

“Fine. I’ll do it.” The woman actually has the nerve to smile. She pats Padmé on the back and then exits the terrace, leaving the very conflicted Padawan to stew over this revelation. Speeders still pass, glinting in the sun, unaware of her petty troubles. It’s actually kind of cathartic, imagining all of the people who have their own problems. All she has to do is lead three dickheads through the city. That’s not difficult at all.

She’s finally calming now, letting go for the first time since she stepped out of her room in the morning. It’s enough to make her seriously debate skipping lunch and just meditating here. In fact, she’s about to do that when a voice startles her from behind.

“Sneaking out of the temple?” Padmé whirls around to see a figure standing next to the archway onto the terrace, clearly having eavesdropped on their entire conversation. It’s a miracle neither of them sensed him; unless Barriss did and simply chose to ignore the man. He seems familiar, but it’s not until he steps out of the shadows that she can place the voice.

Gold hair, one gloved hand, and eyes the color of kyber. The Hero with No Fear. One half of the epic, odds-defying team. Hell, if some rumors are to be believed he’s even the chosen one. Why Anakin fucking Skywalker is doing something so normal as hanging out on a terrace is beyond her, but that thought is immediately outshone by the fact that he’s coming over to stand next to her by the railing. It’s almost surreal. She’s seen very little of the man between spending most of her time out on the streets and the fact that he’s a pretty major asset of the temple, but he’s easily recognizable. His face is practically half the Republic’s propaganda these days.

He’s also hot. Very hot. Padmé does a third check on her shields, making sure that last bit hasn’t gotten through. She fixes her gaze firmly on th ground. They’re facing towards the temple now, something that she’s glad about. It’s easier to make lame excuses like ‘Oh, I forgot to return some holobooks to the archives’ if you’re not mooning off into the distance.

“Um, no?” Heat rushes across her face and fear her belly, yet she can’t help but feel relieved. If people have their eyes on her, she can refuse Barriss without fearing the consequences. But Skywalker just shakes his head.

“I’m not going to turn you in.” He leans against the railing, eyes far off. “I was never one for sneaking out of the temple. Obi-Wan kept too close an eye on me.” Padmé nods, still pretty intimidated. _Bring your brain back, idiot! Say something!_

“Hm. The great Anakin Skywalker never snuck out of the Jedi temple? I’m going to have to remember that one to use on the younglings.” She says it with a grin, one that he (much to Padmé’s relief) returns.

“The younglings? Am I a subject that comes up often in the crèche?” The admittedly lame teasing almost makes her blush. _Am I twelve again?_

“Do you know how many stupid stunts I’ve put a stop to that involve someone pretending to be Anakin Skywalker?” He’s smiling back in earnest now, and Force, the holos do _not_ capture the brilliance of that smile. It emboldens her into teasing him back. “You’re a missive liability to children everywhere.”

“Oh, I am? Guess I’ll have to stop by some time and set the record straight.” _Is he being serious?_

“I’m holding you to that,” Padmé fires back, “we’ve barely got enough hands as it is. Then the younglings go chopping theirs off trying out Djem-” _Oh wait._ She glances at his cyber-hand, mortified. “Force, I’m sorry! Uh, I didn’t mean- I wasn’t thinking-” It’s nearly as startling when he laughs, a loud and pleasant sound.

“Nah, that was a good one. Obi-Wan would be proud. I’ll come tomorrow after the meeting to decide where I’ll risk the rest of my limbs and give your younglings a stern talking to.” _He is being serious!_ The chimes sound again, signifying the end of her lunch block. For once, Padmé can’t really bring herself to care. But then she realizes she should really get those holotapes back to the archives before Master Nu comes hunting for them herself.

After she makes her excuses and leaves, Padmé can’t help but think that maybe everything will turn out okay. Gil will have a master, Barriss can have her stupid traitor meeting, and Padmé will get to spend at least ten minutes with a very hot man who thinks she’s funny. And then she sees her.

Barriss is standing a little ways away from the archway, seemingly meditating. As Padmé walks by, however, she opens her eyes. And she winks.

* * *

_Missing a meal wouldn’t be too bad today_ , Padmé thinks, looking at her companions across the table. Bene and Jin-Lo keep up a running commentary of thinly veiled insults and criticisms, aimed at her, each other, and various other people from Master Yoda to whichever poor droid happened to assign Bene to garden crew today. It’s frankly exhausting, but telling them to shove off when they sat down next to her in the eastern lunch hall would’ve been rude. They’re not talking to her, anyway.

She can survive all that. Right?

It’s obvious that Barriss put them up to it. Why she did that is still quite a mystery. To keep her from getting cold feet? Like she’d risk crushing all the eggs she’s put in that basket. In any case, listening to them is enough to make Padmé wonder whether she actually cares about the proper Jedi way or if it’s all just an act to gain social standing. With a pair of lieutenants like these, it’s a wonder she’s not driving supporters _away_.

Padmé’s relieved when the chime rings and she can leave dinner, quickly losing her ‘compatriots’ in the swarm of people exiting the dining halls. It is, however, trickier than one might expect. Fewer Knights and their Padawans around the temple means less of a crowd to lose people in. Hopefully, neither of them have been assigned crèche duty in this specific block. 

She makes her way down the hallways, passing various Jedi about their own business. The closer she gets to the crèche, the fewer she finds. Nobody frequents this section of the temple unless they’re going the way she is. Then there’s the sudden sound of feet pounding on tile behind her. Someone is chasing her. Padmé whirls around a corner, dropping into a hand to hand defensive position. A grey blur rushes past her, then stops and backs up a few paces.

“Gil?” she asks, taking in the young Nautolan. He grins, pushing his ever-present head tendrils back out of his face. “What are you chasing me for?” 

“I’m not chasing you, I’m just making sure you’re actually coming back.” Padmé raises an eyebrow.

“Why would I not come back?” He shrugs, suddenly shy, then crosses his arms. She starts off in the direction of the crèche, Gil following in silence. _Did I insult him?_

“People don’t come back for me. Not recently, anyway.” This is accompanied by another head tendril sweep. _Poor guy._ It’s almost a relief that Barriss will be taking him on. Then again, it’s Barriss. 

“First of all, I have to come back,” she says, “the scheduling droids keep putting it on my to-do list. Second of all, I told you I would. So I’m gonna.” He doesn’t smile again, but the swirling emotions around him quiet down a bit. It’s a start. By the time they get to the crèche, the younglings in Gil’s group are going through their evening katas. She bids him farewell and makes her way to the schedule on the wall, which tells her what to do when she’s actually _supposed_ to be in the crèche and not giving reports. 

The faintly blue text directs her down the hall to join the four and five year olds, who are supposed to be meditating. That means that they’ll probably be whispering and giggling in a circle with their eyes closed. Or sleeping. Either way, it’s not one of the easier jobs. Padmé sighs and makes her way towards the light blue door, steeling herself for the attempt.

“Still need hands? I only have one, as you rudely pointed out yesterday, but I’m sure it’s better than nothing.” She freezes in her tracks. _Oh. Forgot about that._ Between her mealtime company, the rule-breaking plan to agonize over, and her various volunteer duties, Padmé’d lost hope sometime after lunch that her conversation yesterday would lead to an actual meetup today. Turning slowly, she meets the blue eyes again and feels strangely conflicted. There’s something odd about seeing Anakin Skywalker in a place so normal as a crèche. He’s a hero, meant only for battlefields and posters.

“Hands don’t help you get the younglings to meditate.” It’s not the greatest comeback of Padmé’s career, but she’s still not sure if making jokes about an amputee’s limb is appropriate. Especially considering this is the second time she’s ever spoken to said amputee. Still, he’s grinning.

“Then I’ll be perfect for it.” Something tells her that he’d rather _not_ teach five year olds how to meditate. In fact, she gets the feeling that he doesn't really like the crèche at all. So why is he here? Of course the Force isn’t going to tell her that. But until she can figure things out, she’d rather not be the sole person in charge of training the little ones. Padmé gestures for him to follow her, then keeps on going down the hallway.

“You don’t like it here, do you?” she asks, opening the blue, sliding door to the section they’re heading to. He shrugs, silent. _Okay, direct approach isn’t working either_. Something tells her that her usual tricks for getting people to talk aren’t going to work on him, particularly because those tricks are formulated for getting coherent answers out of strung-out spicers and tight-lipped smugglers.

Short carpet covers the floor in here, the walls painted with grey and blue swirls. They’re down a hallway and into a large, oval-shaped room with several doors leading off of it. Skywalker still seems uncomfortable, but also slightly curious. Padmé reckons that he’s probably never been in this room or seen much of the crèche before. Is that why he’s nervous? Maybe serving in war zones has made him uncomfortable in unfamiliar terrain. 

There’s not much time for reflection because a pair of crèche masters lead in the twelve younglings Padmé’s supposed to be supervising. They cast a glance at Skywalker before making their way over to the pair of volunteers. 

“There was only one volunteer on the schedule sheet.” Master Markema says, crossing her arms. Padmé shrugs and glances at Skywalker.

“That would be me,” she replies, “I, uh, brought some backup.” The sharp-eyed woman gives them another suspicious look and then sighs.

“Alright. Well, this bunch finished a round of endurance training today, so they should be tired out. It’s going to be harder to keep them awake than still.” Padmé nods. _I’m honestly not sure which I prefer._ Master Markema nods back and then exits the room, frail old Master Lin in tow. The younglings are clumped together near the door they entered through, whispering and pointing at Padmé and Skywalker. Of course, they’re probably pointing at the knight moreso than Padmé, but they’re in the same general area. 

“How did you normal Jedi survive with parents like _that_?” Skywalker whispers, causing Padmé to laugh.

“They’re not that bad. Everyone’s pretty tense around here because our Human Resources are a little thin.” Her smile fades a bit at the last part, but she covers the moment up with more talking. “So, ready to make sure nobody falls asleep while meditating?” 

“I wouldn’t blame them. Meditation is _boring_.” She raises an eyebrow.

“Can you _not_ let the younglings know you think that?” He grins.

“I make no promises.” Padmé rolls her eyes. There’s something about Skywalker that’s more than a little odd, and she has no clue why he’s decided to befriend her all of a sudden, but looking a gift bantha in the mouth is a bad idea in her position. She leads him over to the clump of younglings, who, true to their limited training, fall silent so the adults can speak. This isn’t one of the worse groups. Three year olds who might’ve been living with families beforehand are the true nightmares of the crèche.

“Hello younglings,” she says, pausing for the chorus of ‘hi’s that respond, “are you guys ready for evening meditation?” The energy among the group quickly falls. She shares a look with Skywalker. _This is gonna be a long two hours._

* * *

“You know, you’re not bad with the younglings.” Padmé comments as they walk out of the crèche after a tame, if unenthusiastic, meditation session. “For someone who hates meditation, you teach it quite well.” 

“I don’t hate meditation. I just don’t like sitting around and breathing until the Force enlightens me.” She gives the blond haired man a look. “What?”

“First of all, meditating is not ‘sitting around and breathing until the Force enlightens you’. It’s reaching out into the Force and communing with the universe.” Skywalker laughs, and she crosses her arms. Ignoring him, she plunges on. “Second of all, how do you dislike meditating without hating meditation?” 

“Moving meditation. You know, katas and stuff. And also fixing things. Taking things apart and putting them back together just gives me this sense of... clarity. I’ll always prefer a good spar or fried astromech.” Padmé makes a face. She’s never really tried moving mediation, though Master Addus was always going on about it. The two exit the crèche rooms, reaching the first major hallway.

“Speaking of spars, I’m supposed to meet up with a friend of mine to do that.” She pauses awkwardly, shifting her weight. “So...” _What the hell do I say now?_ The whole experience was kind of surreal. Standing in the empty hallway alone together... that’s even weirder. “Thank you. For stopping by the crèche.” Padmé glances up to find his blue eyes fixated on her own. The gaze is instense. She fights the urge to fidget with the end of her Padawan braid, a nervous habit that she thought had been abandoned in the earlier days of her apprenticeship.

“It was fun, in a way.” It wasn’t. Well, hanging out with the younglings wasn’t, not for him. That’s what the Force tells her with shocking clarity. _So why the hell is he here?_ “Don’t get yourself caught sneaking out later, alright? I can hardly have awkward conversations with you if you get put on archive guard duty.” She smiles back at him, trying to hold the unruly bundle of her emotions back. It barely works, and she sighs, unwittingly let a few tendrils through.

Padmé feels her face heat up, watching Skywalker’s expression as he almost certainly catches the drift. It’s a weird and confusing mixture that Padmé herself can’t even begin to decipher. What little has begun to dawn on her is quite embarrassing on it’s own. 

“Maybe I’ll have to try this moving meditation you speak of.” she says, attempting to distract him. It doesn’t work, probably, but she has to try. The silence stretches uncomfortably.

“Come spar with me sometime,” he says suddenly, confusing her even further, “I can, uh, try to explain it or something.” She doesn’t think she’s heard anything so clumsily put since the time an incredibly drunk Graan flirted with her while she was posing as a fruit merchant. Luckily, loud footsteps pound down the hallway behind them. A very familiar Nautolan is speeding towards them, holding his head-tendrils out of the way.

“Ready?” he asks, panting. Padmé smiles at Skywalker, then turns to Gil.

“First, we need to get you a headband.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy thanksgiving! (For my U.S. peeps.) Here’s a long chapter to celebrate.
> 
> Side note, yes, Anakin is his original late CW age while Padmé is 17. That’s an age gap of 4-5 years. Is that weird? Yup. If a relationship between a 21 or 22 year old and a 17 year old creeps you out overly much (it’s supposed to be a little creepy no matter what), I’d duck out of this story before we go much further. Everyone is consenting, if that changes anything. Quite honestly, the Anakin I’ve written is creeping _me_ out, so I wouldn’t blame you.
> 
> Do I put in aggressive, overly-descriptive disclaimers? Also yes. See: the non-con/abuse warning I put on It’s Com-Pie-Licated


	3. The Sky’s Gonna Hurt When It Falls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’ve made it this far I highly doubt it’s gonna bother you, but underage drinking and mentions of drug use. Also some non-consensual grinding.

“Not bad,” Padmé comments, “but you need to hold it more like this.” She reaches over and adjusts Gil’s grip on his lightsaber. He seems undeterred, his look of concentration undiminished. Stepping back, she nods. “Ready to go again?” Gil nods back, nervous energy evident in his every feature.

Padmé backs up and drops into a light guard, letting the Force flow through her. Or, trying to. The energy sings around her, but she still can’t ‘sink in’ and clear her mind. _How am I supposed to ‘let go’ of everything right before someone rushes me with a lightsaber?_ It’s like learning how to stage fall, getting over that innate fear of hitting the ground and not catching yourself. Learning how to throw herself at the ground in a safe-yet-convincing manner, however, was far easier than combat meditation is proving. Maybe because she had a master on hand who knew what he was doing.

“To ‘Solah’?” she asks, and when he nods again she moves into a higher guard. Saber up, knees bent, arms close to body. Waiting for your enemies to come to you is always the better way to open combat.

And, sure enough, the youngling rushes in blindly, slashing his saber in a broad arc. Padmé catches his blade on the up and guides it down, putting both hands on the hilt and shoving the dismayed Nautolan backwards. He stumbles, guard falling, and so she steps forward, knocking his saber to the side and sweeping a leg under his feet. He lands with a thud, lightsaber rolling out of his grip. She points her own at his chin, careful not to actually stab him.

“Solah.” he calls unhappily, taking Padmé’s offered hand. Once on his feet he moves to sweep head-tendrils out of the way that are tucked behind his head. “I’m never going to score a single hit, am I?” Padmé frowns.

“Hey, I’ve been training for a lot longer than you have. It’d be surprising if you _did_ manage to defeat me after an hour of practice.” _Alright, what do I say now? What would Master Addus do?_ “Next time you go on the offensive, make sure you keep your feet planted. If you’ve got the right stance, no one can throw you off.” Seeing his skeptical look, she adds, “Call your saber, then get in a defensive position. I want you to try and throw me off balance.” 

Gil shakes his head, but then summons his dropped weapon. He plants his feet, legs rigid, then brandishes his saber at a weird angle.

“What are you doing?” He makes a confused-looking facial expression.

“Going into a defensive position, like you told me.” Padmé studies the awkward stance again, then clips her saber to her belt and steps forward.

“I don’t know who taught you your velocities, but that’s not a defensive position.” She goes into her stance from earlier, demonstrating. “You want your legs bent so you can move to absorb impact, your arms like this, and your blade at this angle.” Gil follows the demonstration, eventually pulling himself into the correct posture. Padmé nods. “Okay, watch closely. Try and throw me off balance.”

She takes a broad strike at him, deliberalty leaving her footing shaky, lifting one leg while she strikes. Gil catches the blow and then shoves like she did earlier. _He did learn something._ Padmé stumbles, pulling herself back up. He hasn’t moved from the defense position. _Great_. Now she goes in for another blow, planting her feet firmly this time. Again, he shoves her blade off, but she rocks backwards in her stance and comes in again without falling. They exchange more blows, neither combatant wavering.

“See?” she asks, stepping back and extinguishing her saber. Gil nods slowly, making some small motions as if to remind his muscles what to do. “You’re doing great. Now I want you to try striking me. Focus on the footwork and I’m sure-”

“How cute.” The familiar scathing tone of Bene jars her from her conversation. She turns to see the girl leaning against the training room wall, a cloak pulled on over her usual tunic. “Teaching the poor left-behind some lightsaber moves. I’m sure they’ll be very useful against the beetles you’ll fight when they send you to AgriCorps.” Anger bursts around Gil in the Force, his mouth opening as if to respond.

“Do you want something, Bene?” Padmé interrupts, putting a hand on Gil’s shoulder. Bene smiles pleasantly.

“It’s time to go, Master Naberrie, if you can drag yourself away from your little youngling.” _Peace_. Padmé turns to Gil. 

“I’ve got to go. Keep practicing those stances if you want, but head back to the crèche by eleven. If you don’t, Master Strauda might make me research a very long report that he’ll never ask for.” Dropping her voice, she adds, “I’m really sorry, but I promised a friend of mine that I’d help her out with some research. I’d stay longer if I could.” Gil takes a deep breath in and then exhales slowly.

“I get it. We’ll train more another time, right?” Padmé smiles.

“Right. Oh, and keep my headband. You seem to need it more than I do. See you around, Gil.” And with that, Padmé grabs her robe from a hook on the wall. Bene gives her a satisfied grin before striding from the sparring room. There’s no choice but to follow.

* * *

“I hope you know where you’re meeting people,” Padmé says, cutting left down a darkened side street. Barriss marches to her right, the other three Padawans trailing behind. Despite Padmé’s complaints about the extra, Yulo Frainm has come along on their late night escapade. “Your refusal to wear street clothes could cause problems in this area.” The Mirilian shakes her head, lifting the hem of her robes to avoid a puddle of dirty water.

“People expect my people to dress conservatively in the first place.” She replies evenly, “As the others aren’t wearing obvious Jedi robes, I think we’ll be fine.” Padmé sighs.

“I know what people say about Mirilians, but that’s not the case where you’ve asked me to take you.” She glances over her shoulder at the others. Jin-Lo’s wearing a jacket and cargo pants reminiscent of an apprentice smuggler, but the telltale Padawan braid dangles over his right shoulder. Bene’s had the sense to tuck her braid out of the way, but the way she carries herself in that dress screams unfamiliarity. As far as she can tell, Yulo decided to go in his undershirt and a pair of uniform pants that he cut off with his lightsaber a few minutes before departure. “Even if they do write it off as a culture thing, they’ll pick you as a naive little rich girl and try to rob you. And I won’t even start on the other disguises.” Barriss actually laughs.

“And what sets you apart from them?” she asks, scanning Padmé’s outfit. She rolls her eyes.

“I’m wearing a blaster, for one thing. I’ve got a vibroblade ‘hidden’ in my boot. That tells people not to mess with me. I’m wearing tight pants, which are just ‘hot’ enough to be club clothes, and I’m walking like I’ve been around before. Anyone looking for me would just glide right over my face, and I can hide in the corner. Everyone would probably just guess ‘bounty hunter’s girlfriend’ and leave me alone.” Padmé gestures over her shoulder. “If I was in a club doing recon, I’d say Jin-Lo‘s a Padawan, Bene’s sneaking out, and Yulo is either high on death sticks or insane. A real criminal would see black market, quick fuck, and an easy target.” She shakes her head. “Have any of you ever been out here before?” 

“I have.” Barriss says. Then her voice drops and she adds, “This is their reward for helping me. I could care less if they have a good time.” Something about that resonates uncomfortably in the Force. Padmé’s stomach churns. 

“So they’re like... filmsi notes, to you? Useful, but if you lose them it’s not the end of the world?” The smile on the knight’s face sends a chill down to Padmé’s bones.

“Maybe there’s room for you in the order after all, Padmé.” She doesn’t respond, just plods along the path she decided on beforehand until they reach their destination. On a normal mission there were check-ins to worry about, waystops and code words and tail checks and skill assessments. Now there’s just giggling and footsteps, the occasional yelp when one of Padmé’s charges is startled by a new sight or sound. _If someone doesn’t wake up dead in an alley it’ll be a miracle_ , she reflects wearily, stopping the group to smooth out an argument between an irate, Huttese-speaking Toydarian and Yolo.

Finally, they arrive at the concrete-colored exterior of the club, the pack falling silent as they behold the strobing rainbow lights behind the window and the seedy looking crush of Twilighters congregating outside. Barriss pulls them together before they exit their current alleyway, taking in the state of her traveling companions.

“We are leaving at three AM precisely. No one will be left behind, of course, but if more than one of you is still in there when Padawan Naberrie is ready to depart we are leaving without you.” She glances at Padmé as if to confirm this, and she responds with a stiff nod. _If this wasn’t to save Gil’s career I would ditch you losers inside and leave._ “Remember, we are Jedi and I expect you to act like it. You can use the Force to dispel toxins, so if you start to feel overly intoxicated you should flush it out of your system.” 

And with that, their scraggly group makes their way into the club, and all the ear-shattering music and staccato lights that that entails. First, as she always does, Padmé takes a deep breath in and then exhales slowly. Considering that there’s no objective for her to focus on, she doesn’t need to use the Force to focus or sneak by people she’s tailing. In an place this large, though, calming herself down is a good idea.

Then, she tries to figure out what to do. Padmé’s been in many clubs of this variety, both with and without any allies. She’s even posed as a tabletop dancer in much raunchier locations. The only problem is that she’s always had a goal. Follow this guy. Get that info. Will this Sleemo reveal the location of a secret brothel? Does that politician really pick up underage girls? Any alcohol she’s ever swallowed, any dancing she’s ever done, any person she’s ever shouted at over the music; it’s always been a means to an end. She knows how to act unassuming or suspicious or strung out or excited. Actually being any one of those things? That’s a different story.

“Buy you a drink?” She jumps at the tone and the words spoken so close to her ear, a hand halfway to her blaster before she realizes it’s Jin-Lo. He’s grinning, putting on a weird accent. Padmé wants to tell him to shove it, to go follow Barriss and see who she’s meeting. To go back to the temple and sleep. But for some goddamn reason Jin-Lo looks... attractive under the lighting, and Bene looks so lost, and Yulo’s eyes are bugging and so she follows the fools to the bar. _For their own good_ , she tells herself. 

Padmé lies.

Honestly? The first half of the night is not terrible. She sips her first drink. Then she swallows the second. The third one is a straight gulp, which she knows will get her drunk faster. She should sip them, to give the impression of drunkenness and less of the effect. But she doesn’t, ending up with a semi-unpleasant fuzz around her head. Still, she limits it to that. If she’s in charge of getting this mess home, drinking herself drunk is a bad idea. Then Jin-Lo passes her a fourth drink and the fuzz deepens.

“Dance?” He asks, and for some Force damned reason, she sets down her cup and follows him onto the crowded dance floor. The rectangular lower level is packed with people, everyone shoulder-to-shoulder and moving in a vague sense of rhythm. The upper level is a sort of observation deck where the real business goes on. The place where smugglers, guns for hire, dealers, and secret contacts like to hang out. The place where Barriss is. Padmé wants to go find her, to eavesdrop, to clear her head of the poison and sit in the corner until three.

Then Jin-Lo puts his hands on her waist and starts doing a weird, fast dance. She follows his moves, which bring them closer and closer together. Soon they’re flush against each other, basically grinding. Padmé’s heart pounds, a quiver of fear rising through her alcohol induced fog. The archivist is nice enough here, but he’s also a huge asshole. She needs to shut him down before they end up in a bathroom stall doing something they’ll both regret, which she can tell is where this is going based on his equally distorted aura.

“I think- I’m- come on, Jin,” she slurs, pushing at his chest. He pulls her even closer, intentions obvious through his cargo pants. They’re not impressive, compared with Padmé’s various experiences. “Let me go!” Jin-Lo’s grip on her shoulder tightens, and he leans down to whisper something in her ear, a motion she squirms away from. While he’s distracted, she draws on the Force and runs it through her body, attempting to cleanse her bloodstream of the alcohol so she can think straight. It works marginally well, returning her to drink-one state. Unfortunately, Jin-Lo now has a death grip around her waist and he’s leading her towards the doors of the club. 

“Let the lady go, friend.” Jin-Lo suddenly freezes, an unknown male voice speaking up from behind him. The grip on Padmé’s middle loosens and she squirms out, shooting the dark-haired Padawan an angry look. _Peace_. Deep breath in, deep breath out. He melts off into the crowd, presumably in search of some other women to molest. Padmé turns to her savior, a nondescript man who’s stowing a blaster pistol back in its holster. 

“Thanks for the save,” she says, holding out a hand. He shakes it. Fingerless gloves cover his hands and a dark pilot’s jacket his arms. It’s the kind of ensemble that would put most people’s attention elsewhere. Padmé knows better. “Tempe Ihm.” Her favorite alias. The man grins, bringing his eyes up and for the first time she realizes just how disconcerting they are. One is a normal, natural brown, not unlike her own. The other is a blown pupil surrounded by a colorless iris, strange scarring over the socket. If she didn’t know better, she’d say cybernetic.

“Tarl Tirbona.” He glances over her shoulder. “And it’s no fruit off my bush.” _A Nubian?_ Though removed from her home planet at two years old, she can recognize the names and idioms of her people. Padmé would ask him about it, but it seems unimportant. “I’m looking for a Mirilian. Goes by Cotuo?” _Hmm_. She pushes out with the Force, though connections aren’t her strong suit. There’s something vague about the Jedi, as far as she can tell. _Perhaps this is Barriss’s contact._

“Haven’t seen her, but if you’re here for talk she’s probably upstairs.” Tarl, if that is his name, nods and heads for the nearest staircase. Padmé pulls on the Force, using it to nudge attentions off of her and find the quickest path through the crowd. Along the way she pulls off her jacket and turns it inside out, the reversible garment revealing a dark slate color. A snap of clips around the hem and she’s wearing a high-waisted skirt over leggings, as her pants can now be interpreted. She pulls the bun out of her hair, letting the braid hang from the back of her head. 

After grabbing a hat off a nearby stranger’s head, checking it for lice before plonking the weirdly shaped fabric on her own, she’s a completely new person. The application of some lipstick and a shoe rebutton would’ve been a nice touch, but she’s reached the bottom of the stairs. Turning her back as Tarl climbs, she makes conversation with exactly no one and shifts her posture to one of a drunkard. Padmé slowly counts to seventy-five (a weird number that Master Addus gave her, but a working number) and then follows him up the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been severed into two chapters for ease of reading, because it was approaching 4K when I was about 65% done. Also, I wrote this half at ~11pm and edited it on three hours of sleep, so I hope it was coherent enough. Write what you know, right? 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	4. Not Alone, Not Afraid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big boy disclaimers for lightly touched upon (there are some references but it’s definitely not smut and amounts to, like, three sentences) underage sex and casual mentions of previous uncomfortable sexual situations. Nothing is non-consensual and I’m pretty sure by most laws it’s legal, but some people get squicked out and I’m not gonna throw them into this blind. Enjoy!

Now it’s time for the Force to come back into play. Padmé settles against the wall and closes her eyes as if at rest. Reaching out, she feels for Barriss and Tarl, listening to isolated bits of conversation. 

“Hmmm, how about we take this back to...” ( _very distorted, heavy cloth, sticky lips_ )

“...gar di’kut? Kaysh n’arir ibac! Nu draar! Ni’duraa!” ( _necklace, disgust, sour taste_ )

“Coona tee-tocky malia? Mi yarga!” ( _slimy skin, friendship, long day_ )

“...or _after_ you shoved the cactus up...” ( _disquiet, humor, embarrassment_ )

“...is it truly worth the cost?” ( _memories, ‘_ best not to think about it _’, resolve, green lips_ )

Padmé’s eyes fly open. The impressions from the final conversation combined with the words... it’s clearly Barriss. That’s not what bothers her, though. It’s the nature of the memories, the tone of the emotions. Fear settles in the pit of her stomach. _Peace_. It’s probably nothing. _That_ can’t have anything to do with this. But the voice of that memory... _Knowledge_. Yes. That’s what she’s here for. There’s no time to waste on the past, because there is only the present. 

She hones in on the specific conversation, the people involved. It’s Barriss and Tarl, alright. _Phase two_. Padmé makes her way down the aisle, passing the conversation with her hat pulled down and no particular interest in their words. She grabs an empty but opaque cup from the table of a passed out Twi’lek before choosing a seat three tables away. She slinks down in the back corner, ‘nursing’ her ‘drink’, looking up and scanning faces as people pass. Just another smuggler waiting for someone.

“When does it end? I believe in our cause just as much as you do, but...” A sigh. The Force advances her hearing to well beyond the normal range. “We took it too far last time, Barriss. People died. Good people! Not just the corrupt councilmembers, not just bureaucrats. They were honest people, knights, bay workers, Padawans... I can’t stand for that. I won’t.” Padmé feels dizzy again, though not from alcohol this time. _People died. ‘Not just the council.’ Is Barriss actually planning a coup?_

“I understand, Tarl, I really do. But this is why the Force is calling us! I lost people in our last plan. I might lose them in this one, or the next one, or ten from now.” Shuddering breath. “It ends when the Jedi pull out of the war. It ends when the Republic is safe again. It ends when the right way is restored. I don’t like the deaths either. But they’re necessary. The Jedi texts tell us to let go of attachments. To push for the greater good. If a hundred die for the sake of quintrillions, then that’s a sacrifice we must make.” _Holy shit. Holy shit._ Padmé reaches into a pocket casually. _Is my pen recorder still here? No! Shit. The council... holy shit, I have to get Master Add-_

_Peace_. She can’t get anything done if she’s flipping out like this. But the woman who’s offered to take Gil on is some sort of terrorist! _Knowledge_. Slowly, she readjusts herself and falls into meditative breathing. _Pull yourself together, Padmé. You need to be able to give the council the best report possible. You've stared down smugglers and made out with one-eyed spice lords. Focus._ It sounds like Master Addus’s voice.

“No one will die this time, anyway.” Barriss is saying. _Shit, I missed an important spot._ “Even if it all goes horribly wrong, he’ll only be crippled. And Naberrie is a powerful ally. This could bring her closer to us; she’s an asset far greater than the archivist or that reassignment fool.” _Thanks?_ “And he’s got such a sweet face. Think of the holotags; Gil Nammonundos, Padawan. Horribly scarred in a tragic encounter with pro-war activists.” It takes all of Padmé’s training, experience and willpower to not jump out of her seat and behead Offee right then and there. _They’re arranging accidents?_

“Last time you said ‘worst case’ involved an insanity plea. I don’t need to remind you about what happened, do I?” Barriss swirls with a strange emotion.

“Stop shoving that... incident in my face. It was a desperate move. I never even dreamed that any of that would happen. I thought they’d pin it on the dockworker and move on.” The Jedi sighs. _Oh Force, this is getting worse by the second. Because if they’re talking about the bombing, that means- **Peace**. It means that- **Knowledge**. Focus on the now, get your evidence. Heroics, not hysterics._

“That doesn’t change the facts of the matter.” Chair scraping floor. “I can’t have this on my soul anymore, Barriss. I agreed to fight against tyranny, I didn’t agree to hurt people. ‘Jedi use their powers to defend and to protect, never to attack others’. I’m done.” A ripple in the Force, something strange and terrible and full of promise. Padmé’s halfway out of her chair when she hears an awful gurgling noise. Turning slowly, posturing forgotten, she sees Tarl drop to the floor. Barriss stands across from him, Padmé’s vibroblade in her hand. She makes eye contact with Padmé from across the tables and smiles, pocketing the knife. Padmé’s knife. The knife Barriss used to kill a guy she was probably seen tailing. _And if they’re talking about the bombing that means she died for no reason, no Force-damned reason, no reason at all. And it means that I or Gil or anyone could too._

“Hello, Padawan Naberrie.” _When did she get so close?_ Padmé stares with searing hatred into the eyes of a monster. And they look frighteningly similar to the eyes of level-headed Jedi Knight Barriss Offee.

“You- I-” _Peace. Knowledge._ Padmé tries to breathe. Breathe air that there doesn’t seem to be enough of. Then she speaks. “The council will not stand for this.” Monster teeth bared by monster smile.

“And who’s going to tell them? A woman seen talking to a man who turned up dead, throat slashed by a vibroblade found in her room drawer?” _Breathe, Padmé, breathe. Peace, Knowledge_. Barriss is cold in the Force, cold like snow or ice or the dead-black streets of level 00000ZZ. “Of course, I would never dream of turning an innocent woman in. Especially not a dear friend of mine like yourself. Who knows, maybe I’ll take you on as a Padawan after mine becomes unfit for duty?”

_There is no emotion, only peace. No emotion, only peace. Only peace. Peace._ Deep breath in, deeper breath out. _There is no ignorance, only knowledge. No ignorance, only knowlege. Only knowledge... Only knowledge._

Padmé lies.

Slowly, she turns to face the green-skinned woman fully. She opens her mouth, releases one last shuddering breath, and then slaps Barriss Offee across the face.

“That,” she whispers, “was for Ahsoka Tano.” Then she runs.

* * *

There’s air at the Jedi temple. Padmé can finally breathe once she’s back inside her closet-like room, though that doesn’t slow her racing heart and mind. _It’s an hour’s walk back to the temple, two or three if they get lost. Barriss will probably wait until morning to turn me in- unless she doesn’t._ Footsteps echo in the hallway outside. It must be the temple guards come to arrest her. Yet they pass, so maybe she’s still safe.

Padmé sighs and climbs to her feet. Sitting on her bed in meditation posture is not remotely useful, especially if she’s not going to actually meditate. And meditating during her three hours of new normal left seems like a waste.

Her first impulse is to go find Master Addus. That’s laughable. She imagines walking into his room in the Halls of Healing, sitting down by his bed, and talking. _Hey master. It’s me, Padmé. I’m being framed for murder or, at the very least, blackmailed into silence while horrific atrocities are committed by an insane terrorist. Oh, and you remember that Padawan we helped track down? She’s not only dead, but she was framed, too. Guess I’ll have to apologize when I join her in the depths of Chaos._ It’s enough to make her giggle hysterically. 

Her second impulse is to go straight to the council. There’s a few issue with that, namely the fact that half the council are offworld, fighting on distant territory. The few on world that she can rouse are unlikely to listen to an alcohol-scented girl accusing a knight of treason. Hell, they had less evidence on Tano when they expelled her from the order and turned her over to Republic authority. All Barriss has to do is flash that stupid knife and all of her problems will be gone.

There is no third impulse. Time and distance have alienated her from most of her friends on Coruscant, especially with the whole ‘spending most of your waking hours hunting down criminals and sleeping during the day’ thing. The scattered bunch of Padawan friends she did maintain aren’t going to be very good backup, and the few Sentinels she and Addus worked closely with might be loathe to come to her aid, especially after what happened with- _Peace. Okay. So I have no allies, no resources, and no proof. No friends, no-_

Skywalker. Sure, she’s spoken to the man twice at most, but he’s probably the most qualified person for this situation that she knows is currently on Coruscant. It’s also one o’clock in the morning and he told her he was shipping out in two days. Going to visit him is a bad idea. A very bad idea.

But it’s not like she has a lot of options. So that’s why Padmé finds herself walking towards the knights’ quarters, sleeping minds brushing her own like tiny ferns growing beside a trail. Other than a few nocturnal species of Jedi, she meets no one. In another world, she would definitely have meditated before making this decision. But this isn’t ‘what am I going to do for my seizela assessment’, it’s ‘who am I going to for help with a murder accusation’. She’s not even entirely sure where the room she’s looking for is.

The door she finds herself in front of may or may not be his. The Force has led her here (hopefully), so it probably is. There’s nothing left to do but knock. And then, hand halfway to the door, it hits her. _Ahsoka Tano was his Padawan._ Knocking on the door at one o’clock in the morning is not only strange and a social faux pas, but knocking on his door at one o’clock in the morning to tell him that someone may or may not have indirectly murdered his apprentice (and gotten away with it) is downright heartless.

For a minute, she lets herself think about just how much it hurt her when she was only days into Master Addus’s injury. It’s an old grief, one that she’s wrapped in layers of ghostly filmsi and nestled in the back of her mind. Where it can’t hurt her. Where even the most scathing remarks can be ignored. If someone suddenly told her they knew... well, there’s not an exact parallel. If someone told her that Master Addis was finally dead, she’d probably break down in tears again. Fall apart. 

So Padmé turns away and walks down the hallway, feet heading aimlessly in another direction. Her stomach feels raw and unsettled, like she’s about to throw up, and her throat feels tight. It’s reminiscent of the time she got poisoned when her cover was blown. Then, there had been Master Addus and his handy pouch of activated carbon particles. There’s no activated carbon particles now, just the slow feeling of dread crashing over her like a wave. Well, there is some activated carbon. She reaches into her belt pouch, pulling out the little leather bag. It doesn’t work on all poisons, but she’s carried some for good luck ever since that incident. Tears sting her eyes. _I fucked up. They’ll expel me if I’m lucky, kill me if I’m not. And then Gil..._

It’s too much. Padmé’s not used to being awake this late anymore, and all of the stress she’s been sitting on is threatening to explode. _But how bad is it, really? I’ve been through worse!_ The thought jars her. _You were always doing it for a cause, though._ Ending up naked in front of a Black Sun operative wasn’t too bad if it saved a couple girls from slavery or worse. Now she’s naked in front of the Black Sun operative and they’ve killed Addus and the slave girls. _Stop thinking! Peace. Knowledge._ Aaaand _that’s not working._

“Padmé?” An all too familiar voice behind her. _Was he awake? How did he know?_ Deep breath in, deep breath out. _Shove everything back into the drawers. Quiet the noises in your head._ Still not working. Footsteps, bare by the sound of them. “Are you okay?” A hand on her shoulder. She realizes she’s trembling then, cold. Or afraid. Or tired. _Speak!_

“I... I’m just taking a walk.” Her lie is lame and her voice is shaky.

“Padmé.” The one word conveys pretty much everything it needs to. And she doesn’t want to but she turns, finding concern and confusion in the trademark blue eyes. _Deep breath in, deep breath out._ That works, a little. So she does it again. And then she opens her mouth, to explain or speak or reassure. To verb. 

Then the dam breaks and some of her unruly emotions spill out and into the Force, fragments almost certainly felt by the man touching her shoulder.

It’s not loud or even all that dramatic. All he can probably sense is vague fear and anger, and there’s no physical evidence of her outburst. Just a rainfall of tears running down her face and a drop of her head. The hand on her shoulder rapidly becomes an arm on her shoulder, which would’ve been more alarming to the Padmé of six hours ago than it is to her right now. She finds herself walking, following Skywalker into his apartment. Her brain registers droid parts and schematics, a worklight on over a desk providing the only lighting. _Well, at least I didn’t wake him up._

Eventually, she’s sitting on his couch next to him and a pile of droid parts. His arm is still over her shoulder, and as her emotions return to their former, under control levels, this becomes more and more interesting. The tears dry and she’s left sitting with a near-stranger in a mostly dark room. Another thing that becomes evident as her brain free up processing space is the fact that Skywalker’s wearing a pair of long pants, presumably some underwear, and nothing else. Padmé opts to ignore that for the moment, focusing on her breathing.

“I’m sorry.” It’s the first thing that she can think of, and it’s a pretty good start for everything she wants to say. “I didn’t come here to bother you, but I couldn’t sleep or meditate and so I started walking around and my brain started to feel like... like...”

“Like it was falling apart?” Skywalker supplies. _Deep breath out_. Padmé nods. His arm is warm and strong and also made partially out of metal. She needs to talk now and worry about all of that later because otherwise she’s going to explode. But where to start?

“How much did hear of my conversation with Barriss yesterday?” And off she goes. The story sounds a lot more dramatic when she’s speaking in a hushed tone in the darkness, despite her best attempt to stick to plain facts. Skywalker tries to interrupt a few times, growing silent as the story goes on. When it’s done, the arm around her is tense. It’s dark and hard to see his face, but she can guess. “I’m not asking you to help me,” she says finally, “and I can leave if you want. But I think you deserve to know the truth before I do.” _Deep breath in, deep breath out._ “Ahsoka Tano didn’t mastermind the hangar explosion. Barriss did.” 

There’s no instantaneous effect. Padmé didn’t expect one. Carefully, she extricates herself from under his arms and scoots the few centimeters to the arm of the couch. A few seconds tick by. Then minutes. She gets to her feet. Reading a person in the Force would be dangerous for her right now, so she’s playing on guesswork. Guessing that he wants to be alone.

“I’ll go.” She’s halfway to the door when fingers close over her wrist. It startles her, and she gives a small cry. The grip loosens. From this part of the room, she can see his face. And what she sees there... Force, it looks like Skywalker needs an arm right now. So Padmé turns and grabs his hand, squeezing it tightly. And then it’s his turn to sort-of cry, so she moves them back to the couch and holds his hand in both of hers. More time ticks by, time that Padmé doesn’t have. Time that’s worth it.

“I’m going to help you.” His voice is serious and deadly in the silence of the room when he finally speaks. “I’m going to make sure that she pays for what she’s done.” His grip on Padmé’s hand is almost unbearably tight. She’s never head a Jedi sound like that, full of rage. It scares her, a little, but she tries not to worry about that either.

“So what do we do now?” His eyes flick down to her, as if he’s forgotten she was in the room, and soften. It’s contrary to her expectation of anger at being brought such terrible news or disbelief of her story.

“Wait. There’s no point in going to the council before morning.” Something flashes in his eyes, more un-Jedilke emotions. “And then we’ll have our revenge.” _Revenge? Revenge is not the Jedi way._ Something seems to occur to him. He gets to his feet, dropping her hand. “You... you should go back to your room. Try to get some rest.” She doesn’t want rest. Sleep will be impossible after all of that. _But then... what_ do _I want?_

“Master Skywalker-” and the look he gives her when she calls him that is enough to cow her, even after the night she’s had. She holds up her hands defensively. “Okay, um, you, then. There is no way in hell I'm going to sleep tonight.” _Okay, that’s good, now where are you going with this?_ “Truth be told, I don’t know you that well. I showed up here because my master is dead and I don’t have any friends.” _Not good! Not good!_ Padmé sighs, looking at the ceiling and closing her eyes. “Force, I’m terrible at this. I don’t even really know what I’m saying. I’m going to leave now, please ignore me.” She stands, shoving her hands in her pockets. 

“Will you please just tell me what you want to say?” It’s not like Padmé can ignore the man’s question. He’s basically just offered to help defend her against Barriss Offee in front of the council. She makes eye contact with him, trying to figure out what the hell she wants and how to ask for it.

“Why the hell did you show up to the crèche? Why did you talk to me on the balcony? Why is it so hard to talk to you?” She stops and gathers her thoughts. “What is going on here? You’re not this friendly to everyone. I have no idea how to put any of this into words, by the way, so I hope you’re following me. I’m just... I’m really lost and I’ve got enough questions that I’ll probably never answer, so I guess I’m just wondering... all of that!” Once again, she proves her eloquence under stress. She’s surprised when he actually answers instead of kicking her out.

“The Force likes us together.” Padmé raises an eyebrow. _You think you’ve heard it all._ Skywalker (or whatever the hell he wants to be called) takes a step towards her. “Haven’t you felt it, too? It sings when you’re near.” _The Force... sings?_ She crosses her arms and studies him carefully, mulling over her next few words. _What I really want to do,_ she realizes with a start, _is walk over there and hold onto him and not let go_.

“You know,” she says casually, “I’m probably going to die tomorrow.” He opens his mouth to reply, but she cuts him off. “It’s the truth. It’s her word against mine, and she’s got physical proof. No one else saw what happened.” She swallows, hard. “I don’t know about the Force, but I am drawn to you.” A step forward, this time on her part. They’re closer now in this darkened room, the only sound their breathing and the silent hum of tension in the Force, a stick about to snap.

“You’re a Padawan. And you just told me-” Skywalker sighs. “Padmé, I... I don’t really know what to say.” _Peace_. But Padmé doesn’t want to be calm. Not like that, anyway. _Emotion_. She holds onto that instead as she gathers her courage and steps forward again.

“Don’t say anything.” She says, and then she steps forward and kisses Anakin fucking Skywalker right on the mouth. He jerks back, surprised or upset, and more fear courses through her, more and different. _Smooth move, Padmé. Wake a guy up at one o’clock in the morning to help you with a murder accusation and then try to get in his pants. Never fails._

And then, even more surprisingly, he brings a hand up and cups her cheek, tilting her head backwards until she’s looking in his eyes. Now she’s a whole ‘nother kind of nervous, out of depth and outmatched. Skywalker’s thumb runs over her lips, his other hand snaking around her waist and pulling her closer. She lets out a shuddering breath, which he seems to interpret as fear.

“Okay?” And when she nods, he leans down and kisses her again. It’s not like kisses she’s had in the past, pretending for a target or playing around with the other Padawans. It’s tender and polite and sends warmth shooting through her chest. They pull away for a moment, and she opens her eyes. He’s studying her, and it strikes her for an instant just how _weird_ all of this is, that she just showed up out of nowhere with horrifying news and now they’re suddenly making out. “Do you want to stop?” The question surprises her. She shakes her head before resting it on his chest.

“Forget it. All of it, okay?” For a second, Padmé can sense his fear and maybe even a hint of anger, so she hastily continues, “I mean all of _that_. Keep all the plotting and politics and scheming and Jedi rules and titles out of here.” She looks up at him again, into his kyber blue eyes, and everything seems to make sense. “It’s just this. Just us.” A light kiss, one to the top of her head.

“Call me Anakin,” he says, and she closes her eyes, leaning in as he does. Maybe the Force is singing, somewhere, but right now all Padmé cares about is the singing of her own heart in her chest and the body pressed against hers. _Anakin_. Something about that seems to fit, something distinctly right.

And so, when Padmé finds herself lying in Anakin’s bed, their kisses and hands becoming far less chaste and storybook, she is not afraid, because there’s nothing to fear. No Barriss, no Jedi, no brain-dead masters and no expired younglings. She meets his eyes, and sees-just for an instant, half of a moment, a fraction of a second-a flash of something strange. Something less than Jedi. Something... yellow? 

But then it’s gone and replaced by blue, blue and a question. A question that is not answered by words, but with the un-knotting of a tunic and the slow brush of fingers over abdomen.

“Anakin,” she whispers, her inner voices silent. The fingers brush lower, prompting further response.

Padmé tells the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An alternative title for this chapter: ‘two people have a long conversation about murder, treachery, and revenge and somehow end up fucking’
> 
> You will never know how close I came to writing smut for this chapter. I ultimately decided not to because it wouldn’t really do a whole lot for my story, and adding random porn in would be a deviation from my established methods. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	5. Shut Your Mouth

Padmé’s never had a lot of time to consider what it would be like the first time she slept with someone. First, it was because she was too young to care. Later, it was because of the Jedi code and a fear of attachments. Finally it was because she’d gotten the impression during the course of her training that most men had very little to offer women in the way of sex. That last one was thoroughly disproven last night. Unfortunately, it was first hand experience and so she didn’t have a lot of time to imagine what was already happening.

All of that led to the very awkward reality of waking up in a twin bed beside a warm and gently breathing man with one arm wrapped around her. Padmé shifts in the embrace, looking up at the sleeping face of Anakin Skywalker. He looks less severe from this angle, less tired. Relaxed. It’s not a bad view. And the whole waking up next to someone thing has not been overstated.

But she also really has to pee, and her head aches from the alcohol she couldn’t burn off last night- oh, and she slapped a woman who was trying to blackmail her into silence. A woman who has successfully framed at least one other person and is plotting to maim Padmé’s youngling friend Gil. So instead of remaining in the comfortable space between Skywalker- _Anakin’s_ arms, she tries to climb out of bed without him noticing. 

Luck has seemingly decided to abandon Padmé in everything because the second that she moves he’s awake, sitting up beside her and looking at her with such fondness that all of her other problems seem to melt away. And then she realizes that they’re both completely naked. And that they, you know, _fucked_ last night. And that happened _after_ she disclosed the ‘Barris is a psychopathic terrorist situation’. And Anakin is older than her. And she’s sort of sore. And- _what the hell is going on here? What am I supposed to say? And what if someone walks in? And did we-_

“Hey.” Clearly, he hasn’t picked up on her runaway train of thought. _Peace_. Padmé blushes and brings her arms up in an attempt to cover her chest.

“Hey.” Grey light is streaming in through the window; they can’t have been asleep for more than a few hours. The light strikes Anakin’s hair, making the lighter strands glimmer like gold. He makes no attempt to cover his own body, which somehow makes Padmé even more uncomfortable. It makes it even more believable that he’s some sort of chosen one, a creature of prophecy. _And you had to pick this guy of all the knights you know to visit at one in the morning and sleep with._ Another wave of awkwardness runs through her, one that she quickly squashes.

_There’s not time to blush like a little girl, not with everything at stake._ The panic and crying of last night seem far away and immature. _Peace_. Padmé settles everything and focuses on her old method of calm. Then she slides off the bed, searching for her clothes.

“Hey,” Anakin says again, though this time it’s a far different tone. “Are you okay?” _Oh, yeah._ Embarrassment rushes through her again, though she’s able to ignore it. Padmeé turns to face him, leaning against the doorframe that leads to his work area.

“I’m fine. A lot better than I was last night.” Anakin gets to his feet as well, placing a casual hand on her hip. It’s suddenly strange to be touched by him, though not entirely unpleasant. His other hand, the metal one, gently lands on her cheek. Then he kisses her, and she feels him move closer, pushing her against the doorframe. When they break off, she’s out of breath and very confused. 

“And did I have something to do with that?” A bit of the tension Padmé’s carrying eases. Teasing is something she can understand. She smiles a little, gently removing his hand from her face and stepping away from him. 

“It was better than meditating, if that’s what you’re asking.” She spots her underwear on the floor and reaches down to grab it. 

“Yeah, well wasn’t _quite_ what I had in mind when I offered to teach you moving meditation, Padawan.” Padmé flinches at that last part, something he obviously picks up on because soon there’s a hand on her back and concern in his eyes. “Hey. I’ll stop joking if it makes you uncomfortable.” She shrugs and sits down on his couch, underwear clenched in her hands. He sits next to her, disquiet swimming in the Force around him.

“I’ve got duty in a few hours.” Tension joins the disquiet, along with tiny shards of fear. “And Barriss...” Anger. Lots of anger. More than she’s seen in a Jedi. The hazy, sleep-deprived memories of last night come floating back to her, a memory of this anger. And revenge. Padmé turns to look at him, concerned. The Force prickles, tapping her with a warning of danger. _But is it from Anakin, or is it from outside?_

“When I get my hands on that lying bitch of a snake-” _Danger, danger,_ sings the Force. The expression on his face is no longer concerned but instead angry. Padmé folds her arms again, trying to ascertain the location of her lightsaber. She stops immediately. _Anakin wouldn’t hurt me... right?_ They’ve known each other for less than three days altogether. _How well do I really know him?_

“I think,” Padmé says quickly, “that we should talk to Barriss. See if we can get a confession, maybe a recording. Neither of them outright said they orchestrated the bombing, I was just working on emotional perception and context. I wasn’t really in my right mind last night, and maybe-”

“Maybe what, Padmé?” He spits it out in a scornful tone that makes her wince. “Maybe you just imagined her slitting that guy’s throat? Maybe she wasn’t talking about bringing down the council?” _Peace_.

“Innocent until proven guilty. I know you’re furious, and you have a right to be-” _even if you’re a Jedi and you don’t,_ “but that doesn’t mean we can just-” Anakin just laughs, and now his anger is frightening to Padmé, fright that she tries to breathe out. _Peace_. It’s hard to remember that this is the guy who kissed her just a few moments ago.

“I don’t think you understand. She _killed_ my _Padawan_ , she didn’t just screw me over! And that council she’s planning on taking out? My master, my best friend, is one of its members! We don’t have time to worry about whether she’s guilty or not.” He glares at her from across the couch. _What kind of a Jedi says things like that?_ Padmé had seen, once, a friend of Addus named Rina get shot by a crooked politician. Addus was angry, but he brought the politician in unharmed. The only tell was a swirl in the Force and a severe note in his voice. She strives to calm herself, and this time the fear does breathe out. Steadiness replaces it, along with some anger of her own. She pulls her panties on and searches for her other clothes.

“So what are you going to do, then? March into her room and murder her?” _There’s my godamn chest wraps!_

“Can you give me a good reason why I shouldn’t?” Padmé sighs and pulls up her pants. Her stomach is squirming uneasily. _This is not how I envisioned the morning-after conversation_. Anakin has a point, but he’s also threatening to break the Jedi code. _Though we kind of threw that out the window last night_. There’s nothing against against fucking people, but fucking a superior is probably against some kind of rule. In any case, there’s no reason for her to stay here and argue with him. Though the thought of never talking to him again is relief tinged with sadness.

“Have you seen my tunic?” The scorn on his face shifts into a different, unreadable expression.

“So that’s it? You’re leaving? Was that all I was to you?” _Sithspit, this guy’s bipolar._ Padmé holds up her arms, unsure of what to say and how to say it. She want to say ‘of course not, but you’re being unreasonable and scaring me’ but that’s _definitely_ the wrong way to say it. 

“Last night was... weird. I was drunk and terrified and not thinking straight. And now is probably the wrong time to figure out what to say or do after-” Padmé stops and takes a deep breath. _I need to be a Jedi, not some awkward teenager trying to sneak back home after spending the night out._ “I have no idea what I’m doing, so I’m trying to do what my master taught me, and he would’ve told me to ask him for help. Well, I can’t, so I decided to ask you for help because I don’t know anyone else who can, but I’m _also_ trying to follow the code and the law, which tell me I should ignore the whole ‘she killed someone I knew and is planning on killing a friend of mine’ thing and focus on bringing her in and collecting evidence. And then I made everything else more complicated by sleeping with you and I’m scared and really confused and I don’t know what to do.”

Anakin just kind of stares at her for a minute while she focuses on her breathing. _At least he’s not shouting about killing Barriss anymore._ He stands up and walks towards her, which sets her on edge, but he doesn’t yell at her or try to kiss her or any of his other weird sporadic moods. He puts a hand on her shoulder and squeezes it reassuringly, which is nice and almost normal, except for the fact that she’s currently shirtless. 

“Everything is going to be okay. Okay?” Anakin asks. She replies with a hesitant nod. He sighs, and she studies him for a moment, tries to figure out just how she got here and where the hell she’s going. “We’ll try it your way. Let me get dressed and then we can get moving.” That settles it. She’s relieved and also apprehensive. It feels like days have passed instead of hours.

“Okay.” What Padmé really wants to do is sleep for twelve hours and then go out on patrol with Master Addus, but that’s unlikely to ever be reality again. “Are you sure you haven’t seen my tunic?”

* * *

“Enter.” Padmé takes a deep breath and presses the button to open the door. Anakin stands behind her and she can feel his anger, tinged with apprehension, coiled under the surface. It makes her shudder. Reading him is easier than reading anyone else, though why that is is anybody’s guess. She walks through and into Offee’s quarters, fear of her own pulsing in her stomach. _If I’m wrong... if she kills Anakin... if she won’t confess..._ Breath in, breath out. _Peace_. 

“Padawan Naberrie.” There’s poison in her tone. Barriss turns from a desk where several sheets of filmsi and a datapad are arrayed. “I suspected you’d show up. And you brought a friend.” There’s something about the way she says friend that makes Padmé suspect she knows far more than anyone could observe. Tension fills the air, taut and ready to snap.

“Barriss Offee,” Padmé says, images flashing through her mind of many similar altercations with criminals. Then she smooths out her mind, enters the calm of a Jedi. It’s a profoundly relieving sensation, though how long it will last is uncertain. “You were witnessed in an underlevel gatheringplace known as ‘The Tooka’s Spots’ last night with an unknown man. After discussing and admitting to having performed treason, you slit the man’s throat. General Skywalker and I are here to take you into custody and before the council. Do you deny these accusations?” 

A serene smile unfolds itself across Barriss’s smug face. She turns to her desk and opens the drawer, removing a knife. The knife. Padmé’s knife. She holds it out as if an ancient monarch presenting Padmé with a blade. And maybe she is. Deep breath in, deep breath out. _Training. You can always fall back on your training._ She ignores the knife and all it stands for. There’s more on the line than her own life.

“Do you deny these accusations?” Anakin is a thunderhead in the Force, strange ropes made of anger and fear and bound by grief wrapping around him. She reaches out a hand to steady him, gripping his arm far harder than necessary. If he notices, he gives no impression. Barriss drops the knife back in the drawer, looking dangerously happy for someone whose chief blackmail material holds no water. “I’m not stupid. That knife proves nothing.”

“My word holds weight, Padawan. Yours does not.” _Peace_.

“Anakin heard you talking to me about sneaking out. I passed people in the temple after I returned last night. The other Padawans can prove that you were meeting with someone upstairs and that I was just a guide.” _And we’re recording you, so please say something incriminating before the unstable man beside me does something regrettable._

The grin, for some unknown reason, deepens. The Force prickles at the edge of her awareness. _Something is wrong._

“So what’s to stop me from saying your accusations are simple an attempt to keep me quiet about your illicit relationship?” Padmé manages to school her expression into being mostly neutral. She feels Anakin’s shock ripple through the Force and knows that Barriss must, too.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Barriss.” Padmé replies evenly, knowing it’s futile. “Please, come with us. Stand trial for your crimes. It’s the very least you can do.” Something falters, and she decides to press it. “Do the right thing. You’ve already ended a dozen innocent lives. The Force must be screaming at you!” But she lost Barriss somewhere in there, because the green-skinned woman jerks her head back as though she’s been slapped.

“Don't talk about things you don’t understand!” Serenity is rapidly vanishing from her face. “The council you follow has lost its way. All of us have! We’ve fallen!” Padmé holds up her hands, taking a step back. Anakin does not follow the movement. Barriss is backing herself up against the desk like a cornered animal. “I lost a friend in that bombing. Mara. A friend I hadn’t spoken to in years because they sent her off on missions to the outer rim. And Padawan Tano... she saved my life, once. By taking the fall, she’s saved many more.” Her eyes dart back up, burning with _something_. “This won’t end until the Jedi pull out of the war. Mark my words. And neither of you will be telling the council because I’ll inform them that you two are sleeping together. They’ll be far more concerned about that than any random, civilian murder or solved crime.” 

“You keep coming back to that lie, Barriss. It won’t help you.” Padmé sighs. The Force is prickling with danger, although it’s been doing that for several minutes now. She takes a step forward, holding out a hand. “The council might’ve been more sympathetic to your words before you killed several dozen people. It’s time to go see what they’ll do now.” Barriss laughs ruefully.

“I don’t need to see it to know. ‘A Padawan? With the golden boy, Skywalker? Oh my! How could this happen?’” She snorts. “Once they had Tano there was no interest in me. ‘How could she do such a thing? Such a bright young woman!’. She kissed a Separatist, you know! But of course, they never cared about their code. And once they have-” Barriss’s words are cut off by the ignition of a lightsaber. Anakin’s.

“Anakin, wait!” Padmé cries, reaching out to stop the lunge she knows is coming. It’s futile. His saber swings elegantly through the air, met at the last second by Barriss’s own. Their blades break apart, scoring furrows in desk and wall. And so it begins. 

The fight is furious and short, pushing out onto the terraces and down their well-traveled paths. Padmé has little to do but watch and observe, praying that another few Jedi will show up and prevent Anakin from doing something really stupid. Her pen beeps, alerting her to the automatic cessation of recording. And then it happens.

Anakin has backed Barriss into a corner, a deep, narrow alleyway between two pillar-like bits of architecture. The fight has caused quite a stir, Jedi inside the temple buzzing around like disturbed hornets. Padmé allows herself to hope that maybe someone will come out and fix the problem. Stop the fighting.

Barriss blocks yet another blow, responding with one of her own. This is parried by Anakin, who returns the attack. Give a and take. Together and apart. They could be sparring, but for the rage and concentration on their faces. It’s a standstill.

Once, long ago, an architect had overseen droids place the brick underlayer of this point in the temple. They stacked them carefully, nary an error. Brick, mortar, brick, repeat; moving with the smooth and efficient accuracy that well-built droids posses. The architect looked away, perhaps at a bird flying below or a friend calling from down the line. Did it happen then? Brick slapped down a hairsbreadth out of place, a touch too much water in the most recent mixture of mortar, maybe a shift in weight crooking the drying construction a fraction.

In any case, this error was missed. Plaster was slathered over the bricks and sealant over that, any later inspections missing the flaw. The underlayer held its secrets and the building’s weight, but on the inside it was becoming more and more out of place, biding its time. Padmé didn’t know this. Anakin didn’t know this. Barriss didn’t know this. But it was. And when the bricks and plaster under Anakin’s left foot, planted to provide steadiness in his stance, crumbled, he was woefully unprepared.

He goes down, foot sinking into the temple’s surface up past his ankle. The speed and ferocity of the attack throws him forward, and in a split-second duel like this one, time to recover is time to die. Anakin knows this. Barriss knows this. And Padmé knows this. The panic washes over her and she lunges forward, drawing her own blade and preparing to divert a slash from the traitorous Mirilian. 

There is no slash. That breaks Padmé’s concentration and she stares at the other woman, a woman who won’t strike a fallen opponent. She understands a lot in that moment, and pivots as hard as she possibly can, bringing her blade up and- something pushes her forwards. Barriss’s eyes widen with shock, Padmé fumbles her blade in an attempt to avoid hitting anyone. But her body was already in motion, and this push brings her into the middle of an almost perfect Form I velocity.

Her muscles finish the move and her lightsaber finishes Barriss. She almost drops the lightsaber before extinguishing it, trying to catch her mind up with her body. _I killed Barriss. I killed her. I killed her!_ Shallow breaths, from Padmé, from Barriss. _There is no emotion, there is peace. No emotion, only peace. Only peace. Peace_. Padmé places a hand over the hole right underneath Barriss’s ribcage. She’s not bleeding, but her organs will be charred, lungs semi-functioning. She’ll die. _There is no ignorance, there is knowledge. No ignorance, only knowledge. Only knowledge. Knowledge._ A hand on her shoulder.

“Padmé.” A word that brought her so much comfort last night now only adds to the mounting sea of dread in her stomach. She shrugs the hand off. One of Barriss’s trembling hands lands on her own. She clenches it tightly, searching for the answer, for the rewind. _There is no passion, there is serenity. No passion, only serenity. Only serenity. Serenity_. This isn’t the first person she’s seen die, or even the first person she’s killed. A reflected blaster bolt, a swift blow to the neck. Stabbing someone in the stomach with a lightsaber is a completely different experience. 

“F-f-fall.” The word is scratchy and costs Barriss much effort. Padmé nods, desparate to bring her peace. Bring peace to the murderer. The murderous protector of honor. _Serenity. I can be calm. I can do this. I have to be neutral._ “He will. Huh-he-” A final tremor runs through her body and then she’s silent. Padmé turns, horrified, to Anakin. And his expression is one of deadly calm.

“I won’t tell them you killed her.” The hand falls, slack, from her grip as Padmé gets to her feet. Anger mixes with dread, anger for death, anger for the circumstances.

“I won’t lie, Anakin. I’ll tell them it was an accident.” He shakes his head, taking a step forward and picking up Barriss’s saber. 

“She wasn’t wrong about the council. They wouldn’t listen. They’d cast you out, lock you up.” The saber is pressed into a limp green hand. “But not if she killed herself. We did all we could, but she took the drastic way out. A real shame.” It’s like being back in the apartment with him, scared and unsure. 

“I can’t. They’d know. Security footage, or fingerprints, or wound angles-” he takes a step toward her, and the exit is blocked.

“We’re in a blind spot. We’ll both have the same story.” Her back touches the stony wall. “It’ll be okay, Padmé.” A shudder runs through her back, one of cold, clammy fear. She calls her saber and clips it to her belt. _Please wake me up, Master. I want to go home._ But Addus is lying prone in the halls of healing, unable to help. So she sighs.

“Alright.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was half-done for a very long time. Sorry for the delay in updates!


	6. Deep Down

The high council chamber is a formal, circular room. Padmé’s been here before with Master Addus for assignments and reports of importance. She found the room itself a comfortable place, light streaming in its high windows and Jedi masters sitting in low seats around the perimeter. Not imposing, nothing to be worried about. Of course, Addus had always been right by her side. Even if she was required to speak, his presence in the Force was calming. Public speaking had never scared her as much as it had the other Padawans, anyway.

Today, she stands in front of the council and lies to them. For the most part, anyway. Barriss had been treasonous and wrong. No one would’ve blamed Padmé for striking her down, especially because the Barriss’s instant of hesitation had been too short for anyone else to notice. That doesn’t matter, though, not to her. Not to Barriss. The ring of wise masters feels more like a circling pack of predators, the sunlight feels like it illuminates her every secret. 

Instead of Master Addus beside her, there’s Anakin. He still swirls with confusing and often frightening emotions, ones that she doesn’t quite understand. He’s doing most of the talking, thankfully. Padmé should listen to his story, prepare to confirm or deny the parts that he does. Her brain isn’t really feeling up to that at the moment.

“Quiet you are, Padawan Naberrie. Add to the story, anything you have?” She jolts to attention, fighting the embarrassment down to the bottom. The eyes of Master Yoda are not unkind. _Just tell them the whole truth. A Jedi is honest; I’m sure they’d appreciate that._ Deep breath in, deep breath out. _I can’t. Anakin’s just told them his version and I’ll just muddle everything if I start now._

“I...” _Where did he leave off?_ The Force is no help. “think that Master Skywalker gave an accurate report.” _Peace_. The Grand Master simply blinks at her, then turns to Anakin.

“Dismissed you are, General. Many reports you have to file.” Anakin nods, catching Padmé’s eye and inclining his head. She turns to follow him, hardly daring to believe. _Whatever conversation we have over the incident reports will be nothing compared to all that._ “Not you, Padawan Naberrie. More to ask you, we have.” She swallows and faces the council again. Apparently she’s not getting off _that_ easy.

“You seem nervous, Padawan.” She has to resist the urge to turn and look at the master slightly outside her peripheral. _‘Pick a direction, Padmé, or else you’ll be spinning around like an astromech the whole meeting.’_ Younger Padmé had laughed at that advice. Deep breath in, deep breath out.

“I’ve never stood in front of the council without my master before.” It’s not an answer to a question that is not a question. But it’s also not a lie, and starting with the truth is a breath of fresh air. Padmé gauges their visible reactions, which are few. Sensing their emotions with the Force would be a difficult and risky game to play right now. The general consensus is concerned.

“General Skywalker claimed that you visited him because your master.” Master Adi-Mundi says. “Where is he now?” Padmé swallows hard.

“In the halls of healing.” She adds, “Since about a few months ago. He was injured while on a mission.” Now she recognizes pity among the concern, and that makes her angry. She doesn’t want pity. 

“When is he expected to return to duty?” Padmé never realized just how uncomfortable this situation would be. _And I’ve got to repeat it next week with the reassignment council._

“They’re... not sure. He hasn’t regained consciousness and his mind feels far away.” She clasps her hands together behind her. “The reassignment council is meeting with me next week to decide what will happen to our apprenticeship.”

“That is... unfortunate.” Padmé nods. That’s the understatement of the century. “This whole situation is. Offee must’ve seen you as an easy target.” _No, she saw me as an easily manipulated target_. That’s not quite the same thing. It makes a difference to Padmé, anyway. “Are you sure you have nothing to add? Possible co-conspirators? Other people who may have been forced into silence?”

“Bene, Jin-Lo, and Yulo also came to the club. Barriss told me she was ‘rewarding’ them, but that they were disposable. I don’t know if they know anything or how involved they were in her acts of terrorism.” She can do this. It’s like giving Addus a report after one of her missions. “The man she stabbed called himself Tarl Tiberona. I think he was Nubian. He didn’t seem too much older than her. He was definitely involved in some of her activities, but I wasn’t able to get a recording of their conversation.”

“Troubling, this is.” Master Yoda says, worry crossing his face. “A network of Padawans and spies. How many involved, I wonder?” He glances up at Padmé. “More to say, have you?” The truth almost comes out. All of it, right down to the dark alleyway where it really got started. Even the embarrassing parts. And then she says,

“She was sorry.” Several of the masters get confused looks on their faces. “Barriss. She... was speaking to Tiberona and she... broke down. Cried a little. She told him she didn’t know what to do, that she was in way too deep, that she wasn’t sure who was right anymore. That she sensed a growing darkness, maybe her own.” Confusion turns to shock, so she presses on. _Maybe this will make it up. They won’t curse her name or salt her grave._ “They talked about someone else, someone who was ‘secret from the others’. Someone who comforted them, who understood, but they were also afraid. Someone dark.”

“Mention this to Skywalker, you did not?” Padmé shakes her head, taking a deep breath. 

“I was confused. She killed so many, some of my friends, even. But she was upset and lost. Like me. It was... surreal. I’m afraid to mention it, even now, in case it sounds like I agree with her.” Padmé can use their sympathy now, can channel it. It will work. This will work. She’s fixed it. “She seemed... torn. Like she was fighting herself.”

The masters whisper to each other, painfully aware of her and yet ignoring her. She catches a few words; ‘used’, ‘perhaps’, ‘Sidious’, ‘Dooku’. It’s scary, but she’s been falling apart for days. Maybe this lie will finally help her glue her life back together.

“Have any other Padawans spoken about this influence?” Master Koon sounds concerned.

“Not that I know of. But Barriss had a lot of friends. Almost followers. I don’t talk to a lot of them.” The council member exchange more concerned looks.

“You may go, Padawan Naberrie. If we have a further questions, we’ll let you know.” Padmé nods and leaves the room. She nearly collapses in the empty lift. _I just lied my ass off to the entire Jedi council. And it worked._ Anakin is waiting for her at the bottom, and anxious look on his face. It changes to one of surprise.

“Padmé? You look... remarkably well.” She smiles at him. Actually smiles. And then she closes her eyes as her neurons go to war with each other. “Padmé?” A hand on her shoulder. The percussion of thoughts in her mind does not cease. “Padmé!” _What have I done? What I had to do. What I didn’t have to do. I saved me. I saved us. I saved Barriss. I lied. I told the truth. I’m terrible. I’m alive. I’m-_ “Hey!” She snaps back to reality.

“I told them that Barriss was being controlled by a dark presence.” That shuts him up for a moment. “I almost just told them the truth. That would’ve been the right thing.” She crosses her arms. 

“You did what you had to do.” He puts a hand on her shoulder, one that she shrugs off. “I understand what you’re going through.” Padmé turns to face him, frowning.

“How can you?” A shadow crosses his face, a flicker his aura. Standing near him again makes her feel weird. Clouded. But it can’t be him, can it? 

“I killed Count Dooku.” Padmé throws her hands up.

“That’s not the same thing! He was an enemy! He was trying to kill you! Barriss stopped herself when you stumbled. I saw it.” _Wait a minute..._ “I saw it and I tried to stop and-”

“He was disarmed.” He cuts her off mid-sentence, the words tumbling out. “Kneeling, I had his saber. He didn’t even have any hands. It wasn’t the Jedi way. But I still did it.” He still gives off the aura of disquiet. She can’t stop herself from asking, 

“How do you do it? How do you live with yourself?” The shadow lifts again.

“Let me show you.”

* * *

Their blades meet high in the air, then fall away. Padmé drops backwards and takes a few steps, feeling even more tired than she had before. The rumors about Anakin Skywalker have not been exaggerated; the man can fight. She’s having a hard time keeping up. The task is all consuming.

“So you deal with your guilt by ignoring the guilt’s existence?” An easy grin crosses his face. He’s in his element, flowing through their spar with lightning speed and controlled ferocity. It makes her feel about as capable as a youngling taking their first lesson with a practice saber.

“Isn’t that what all good Jedi do?” Ataru leap backwards to avoid his strike. She hits the ground and drops to one knee, absorbing the impact. “Meditate their feelings away?” Padmé backs up even further, panting.

“You’re awfully literal for someone who managed to pass his Trial of Spirit.” He feints left and she falls for it, receiving a neat slice in her overtunic that makes her breath catch in her throat. _Lightsabers are danagerous_ , Addus had once told her, _and it’s immensely difficult for anyone less than a master to make precise cuts with them; little scratches or a slit in the fabric of your friends cloak. I don’t want you to try anything flashy and kill someone by accident._ The blade passes her by without so much as singing her undershirt. “Didn’t your master ever tell you not to screw around with close cuts?”

“Padawans are supposed to ignore their masters.” He’s toying with her now, tiny strikes that stop far too close for comfort. Padmé refrains from moving. “I think Ahsoka only listened to me about half the time.” He slips behind her and holds his saber up to her throat.

“Solah,” she calls, sighing. “Though I hardly think that was a fair battle.” The blade threatening her whooshes away and Padmé deactivates her own saber. Anakin doesn’t move, simply standing behind her. Too close for comfort. She steps away and pretends to examine the rip in her tunic. “And you cut my shirt open. I can’t go do garden detail with a hole like this.”

“I think you look better without the tunic.” That sends another unpleasant rush of confusion swimming through her stomach. 

“This is not the time, Anakin.” He’s got his stupid, stubborn grin on as he takes a step towards her.

“Not the time for what, exactly?” _Force_. It’s the last person Padmé wants to see right now. She turns to see the equally idiotic Jin-Lo standing in the doorway. “Missed you at lunch, Naberrie.”

“I didn’t.” Now that Barriss is gone, Padmé doesn’t feel the need to play nice with her informants. “I had important things to do.” Jin-Lo enters the otherwise deserted sparring room. Anakin tenses up beside her, and she hopes that for Jin-Lo’s sake he doesn’t mention Barriss. He looks at Anakin, reguarding him with an arrogant look.

“What, flirting with him?” _Peace_. “You’d have better luck with Yulo. At least he’s not in the war for glory.” _Oh no_. She doesn’t have to be a Jedi to know that this isn’t going to end well.

“Glory?” Pissed off would be an understatement if she were to apply it to the fire filling Anakin’s presence. Jin-Lo either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

“You’re a pretty face, I guess. Everyone on the _holonet_ loves you, yeah, but do you have the skills to back it up?” Not good. “Cutting down a battledroid is all well and good, but could you fight in an actual duel?” Jin-Lo barely has time to step back before Anakin activates his lightsaber. 

“Care to test that theory?” Padmé steps back toward the wall and eyes the two men warily. Jin-Lo looks significantly less sure of himself than he did a moment ago, but he pulls out his own saber without hesitation.

Padmé’s theory of Anakin holding back against her is proven true in a matter of moments. The first blow proves that much. The impact shakes Jin-Lo’s arms, though he doesn’t back down. He shoves back instead, using the momentum to push himself backwards. There he falls into a recognizable Soresu stance, going on the defensive. A smart tactic. 

She’s not trying to, but as the fight continues she finds herself watching Anakin’s movements. His clothes are black and baggy, appropriate for a Jedi, but he’s clearly well muscled. Not like she didn’t know that already, but- _Anyway_ , his strikes are powerful and precise. And he’s very attractive. A small flicker of pride fills her that this guy, this amazing duelist, this hero, has decided to stand by her. Even though she killed Barriss. Even though she broke the code. Even though there’s something cold inside of him.

Jin-Lo winds up on his ass, a blade pointed at his throat. His face burns red with anger and humiliation. Once he calls ‘Solah’ he pushes himself to his feet, glaring at Anakin and then Padmé.

“I heard about what you did to Barriss,” he spits, heading for the door. “This isn’t over. Now that I’m in charge, you’ll have to listen to me. I’m not going to leave you alone. You’ll be working for me. Just you wait!“

It’s a statement that would scare her more if his exit wasn’t followed by Anakin’s arm around her shoulder and his pride in the Force.

* * *

“Hey master.” The Tholothian is silent as ever, sleeping peacefully in his room. Padmé’s in her seat by the side of his bed, waiting for something to happen. “I miss your guidance now more than ever. Things made a lot more sense when it was just you and me and maybe a few other sentinels tracking filth through Coruscant’s dirty belly.” 

“The people I told you about, the network of Padawans and their politics... their leader is dead. At my hand. But I lied to the council about that. They don’t know. They think she was being manipulated by a Sith.” She sighs, watching him for a twitch, a sign, anything to prove that he’s more than just dead weight. “They’re regrouping. I really don’t like it, master. Jin-Lo’s got it in for me and I haven’t seen Bene all day. They were the ringleaders. Now I’ve got another meeting later. I should actually get going soon.” A presence. She feels someone behind her. Someone familiar. But... as Padmé turns, she can hardly believe what she sees.

“Your quest for guidance is admirable. But I meant what I said. The temple will fall. And it will be his fault.” Padmé leaps to her feet, drawing her saber on the Mirilian standing before her. But... Barriss _glows_. Blue. Just to test it, she pokes her saber out where Barriss’s shoulder is. It goes right through, with no visible effect. 

“I’m seeing things.” Padmé puts her saber away and turns her back. “I’ve been awake for too long, I’m stressed, I’m hallucinating.” The blue woman steps in front of her. “I killed you already. Do I have to do it again?”

The apparition smiles sadly. Padmé shakes her head and steps towards the door.

“You’re not real. I can just ignore you.” She exits the room far quicker than necessary.

“You’ll come to me for guidance soon enough.” Hearing her voice is haunting. Mercifully, the apparition does not follow her from the room. Padmé leans against the wall, closing her eyes. _Peace_. Barriss Offee has not come back to haunt her. _Unless she has. Unless-_

“Bye, master,” she says to the closed door. It’s time for her meeting, anyway. _Not that I’m looking forward to it._ On autopilot, Padmé heads for the conference room. The dead are dead. It’s one of the first lessons you learn as a youngling- no matter how much you know about the Force, death comes for all of us. We come from the cosmic Force and we rejoin it once our time is up. There’s no way to keep your life energy from mixing with all the other energy in the universe.

Then again, it’s not the strangest thing that’s ever happened. Jedi mystics used to claim visions of the future delivered through their dreams. They expected prophecy, and so interpreted their dreams as such. Padmé’s been waiting for the other shoe to drop since yesterday, it’s only an extension of her worry to meet a Barriss ghost. 

At least, that’s what she has to tell herself if she wants to not fall apart. _Now if I can just get through this fucking meeting, maybe I can go to bed early._ Ghost Barriss can wait until tomorrow. Along with everything else going on in her no-longer boring life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written with the angst of Mandalorian Season 2. Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> I’ve decided against rewriting this story. Managed to swim through a particularly difficult bit of writer’s block. Sorry if that alarmed anyone- I’m going to see this through. This chapter was really hard to write, but I think that it will get better.
> 
> Not entirely sure how one styles Ki-Adi-Mundi’s name, so he’s Master Adi-Mundi. Anyone with the proper knowledge, please help me out.


End file.
